All posts by Licketysplit

Stuff on My Morrissey

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I just know that Morrissey has a softer side than what he just presented to us and our advice-hound readers. I will not fail Morrissey. I will help him come to terms with the fact that some people are quite content to be alive.

Look, maybe he’s not so uncharitable to his fellow man after all:

Lord these words I beg of you
As I kneel down at my bed
Because soon I will be dead
Let’s face it soon I will be dead
And I just want to
I want to see the boy happy
With some hope in his pale eyes
Is that too much to ask?
Before I die
I have one final dream
For my own life I don’t care anything

There, see! He wants someone happy. He IS capable of it!

Oh. Wait. What’s that, speak up?

Morrissey

He was talking about a cat.

And I suppose that cat will rightfully eat him once he is dead. Carry on, Morrissey. Sorry to bother.

Dandy in the Underworld

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DIED TOO YOUNG

Wait a tick, let me get this straight: you natterers are complaining about boots and hats? Are you unaware that I DIED TOO YOUNG? That’s right, there are no hats where we’re going, people. No heads, really, either. But let’s not dwell.

Life’s a gas. Bang a gong. Rock on. Roll on. Sedately, ideally under the power of your own two feet.

I’ve had a lot of time to do some studying, and I have learned to use this internets thing from the Beyond. They have free wireless at Bed, Bath and Beyond, you see! There are a lot of facts floating around out there about me:

1) 3 days before his death Marc and David Bowie played together on Marc’s BBC series. During this performance the stage turned out to be too small for the two flamboyant performers. Marc got a little too close to the edge and fell over it, perhaps in a final sign that Bowie was destined to become the full legend in life that Marc would sadly never have the chance to be.

2) David Bowie once went to some sort of palm reading or something along those lines and was told that He, Jimi Hendrix, and Marc Bolan were some sort of mystic phenomenon that was only destined to be here for a few years. At the time it was laughable, as Hendrix was the only one who had passed. After Bolan’s death Bowie was devastated and fairly scared. Luckily whoever the prophetic individual was turned out to be only 2/3 right as Bowie is still alive and performing today, some 25 years after Marc Bolan’s death.

I shall neither confirm nor deny, as I know you cads have nothing better to do than speculate. You’ll have to ask Mr. Bowie as to whether or not he shoved me off a stage.

You are a special star/never marry an icon

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Pete Burns

Bonjour, my star babies, I sensed through the ethereal veil that my presence was desperately needed (my call waiting beeped). Yes, you have problems. Your cheekbones are practically nonexistent. Your hair is but a sad opossum sitting on your head. You would have no idea how to apply eyebrow crystals if I left you alone in a Swarovski-studded room full of tweezers and glue and absinthe. Your garments are not made of anything endangered, although your ermine socks are nice on cold mornings, I allow.

I know, it’s all bloody tragic. But take it like a man, tee hee, if you dare! We do not traffic in complaints here. We take action. Lots and lots and lots of action. I don’t want to see you snuffling around, plying Steve Strange with questions in a transparent bid for attention. That’s a cheap thrill, a tiny pellet of cocaine wiggling down the chute because you yanked the lever, then, didn’t you? Did you get a shock, or does wire mother (Steeeeeee-eeeeve) love you today?

You forget that life is a glorious mystery, you sodding twits! Black, white, man, woman, animal, vegetable? Why does it matter? If I can get up and have at the day, so can you!  I have just put out a new single! No lying about all soppy, drowning in a tub of your own tears, waiting for attention to come to you. You shan’t be rescued by a strapping merman. Or even a fireman for that matter. You will have to drive yourself to the ER after your own suicide attempt, and the trauma team will sigh and avert their gaze because your eye makeup is smeared and your patch is flipped round.

So here is the Answer, babies: bootstraps! Preferably from boots with 2-cubit platforms. Come on, they are so shiny and sleek, and they make you look at least a stone lighter. If you wish, you could pull yourself up by someone else’s bootstraps, but you don’t know anyone fabulous enough, to be honest. And that person might consider it sexual harassment, which is sometimes but not always undesirable. You can do this, babies. Tug! Tug!

Body of Work by Victoria; Dunning-Kruger

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Hey, what’s your spirit animal? I am like that bear who can’t follow through! Since I recently spent approximately 25 years not following through, these days my life consists of a Bataan Death March of compensatory follow-through. I am under personal obligation to indulge and present any old crazy idea that occurs, no matter the peril or exhaustion.  To that end, may I present : Tales for Awful People, a collection of instructive fables.

Five years ago, two little squirrels (they were related) wrote a collection of fables, inspired by daily living and the terrible offenses committed in the name of that topic.

The squirrels got the name of a friend’s literary agent, and they agonized over writing a query, but because they are like The Yak Who Feared Success, they never sent it. These squirrels had A Childhood, you see. One of the squirrels recently said “Sister dear, since we are doing nothing better with the fruits of our labor, let us post installments on the internet.” The other squirrel said “Sure!”

But then the first squirrel was trolling around Amazon and discovered that David Sedaris just came out with a book of animal fables. “Fuck,” said the squirrel. There is a moral here somewhere.

A bear is here

In other news, we now have a Facebook fan page. Over on the right-ish. LIKE US. YOU REALLY LIKE US. Come on, this book deal goes to 11!

Welcome to my chamber of horrors

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It’s no longer makeshift! That’s right, we went outlet shopping. Through some hideous twist of fate, we ended up in the Restoration Hardware outlet. I previously thought I had all the hardware I needed for my chamber of horrors: squeakless hinges, medical grade ganches, you name it. But wait til you see the glorious off-price contents of a Restoration Hardware outlet on a holiday weekend.

I got the most adorable wrought iron letters for spelling out the names of my captives. Then I was over near the lamps, and I saw a positively medieval cage, about the size of TWO breadboxes. It had a hasp and a chain! As I approached the table, some woman in suede driving mocs pursed her thin lips at me. I think my preternatural beauty offended her.

I turned back to Mr. H and called “HONEY! Look, this is just the perfect cage for my monkey skeleton!” He sighed and peered over my shoulder. “I think it’s a wine rack.”

“No, honey, I could totally use this for my monkey skeleton. It’s just what I need.”

The lady was just staring openly by this point, so we continued the banter about where to put the monkey skeleton until she wheeled around and skittered away.

Monkey Skeleton needs a house

Later, it was revealed that Mr. H didn’t know I was joking.

Mr. H and I went to a wedding, and this involved starting to drink margaritas at 10am. All weddings should be like that. I shot second camera, and that was reasonably fun. They had a tres leches cake! That’s THREE kinds of leche. Congratulations, men! Upon review, you were lacking a glitter cannon, but otherwise I give that a solid 5 thumbs up.

Then we went and test drove Audis. Sobered up and after a mint, of course. It’s fall, and we traditionally get the urge to roll our old car into a lake right around Columbus Day. The Saabaru is making a noise, and getting it fixed seems like it will be a trial. I snapped off the piece that seemed to be the problem months ago, but now it has a new noise. Since that one is Mr. H’s car, he is likely to drive it until it falls apart on the highway without noticing. The situation remains unresolved at this time, mainly because we can’t have nice things.

Then I decided to become a justice of the peace, and would you believe Massachusetts has RULES about this? I assumed it was a take a course, pay a fee deal, but no, each town is allotted a certain number of positions, and you have to apply, including a resume and the signatures of 5 prominent state residents. Uh?? Well, one of my neighbors is on the city council, and one is in the US House of Representatives, and a former state senator gives me a donut every year on Halloween, but I just don’t have anything else going for me. Oh. I once threw up near John Kerry’s house.

It’s easier to be a notary public. There’s no position limit (only your imagination), and you only need 4 signatures for that, although one must be from a practicing lawyer. All the attorneys I know pretend not to know me in public for some reason.

In conclusion,
in fourteen-hundred-ninety-two, Columbus sailed the ocean blue.
Despite all the horrors that did accrue, he still never imagined the likes of you.